Hidden Star. Nora Roberts

sleep. Let me do the worrying for a while.”

      “I will. Don’t close the door,” she said quickly when he stepped out into the hall.

      He pushed it open again, studied her standing there in the patterned light, looking so delicate, so lost. “I’ll be right downstairs.”

      She listened to his footsteps recede before sinking down on the padded bench at the foot of the bed. It might be foolish to trust him, to put her life in his hands as completely as she had. But she did trust him. Not only because her world consisted only of him and what she’d told him, but because every instinct inside her told her this was a man she could depend on.

      Perhaps it was just blind faith and desperate hope, but at the moment she didn’t think she could survive another hour without both. So her future depended on Cade Parris, on his ability to handle her present and his skill in unearthing her past.

      She slipped off her shoes, took off her jacket and folded it on the bench. Almost dizzy with fatigue, she climbed into bed and lay atop the quilt, and was asleep the moment her cheek met the pillow.

      Downstairs, Cade lifted Bailey’s prints from her teacup. He had the connections to have them run quickly and discreetly. If she had a record or had ever worked for the government, he’d have her IDed easily.

      He’d check with missing persons, see if anyone matching her description had been reported. That, too, was easy.

      The money and the diamond offered another route. The theft of a gem of that size was bound to make news. He needed to verify the facts Bailey had given him on the stone, then do some research.

      He needed to check the registration on the gun, too—and check his sources on recent homicides or shootings with a .38.

      All those steps would be more effective if done in person. But he didn’t want to leave her on her own just yet. She might panic and take off, and he wasn’t going to risk losing her.

      It was just as possible that she would wake up from her nap, remember who she was and go back to her own life before he had a chance to save her.

      He very much wanted to save her.

      While he locked the bag in his library safe, booted up his computer, scribbled his notes, he reminded himself that she might have a husband, six kids, twenty jealous lovers, or a criminal record as long as Pennsylvania Avenue. But he just didn’t care.

      She was his damsel in distress, and damn it, he was keeping her.

      He made his calls, arranged to have the prints messengered over to his contact at the police station. The little favor was going to cost him a bottle of unblended Scotch, but Cade accepted that nothing was free.

      “By the way, Mick, you got anything on a jewelry heist? A big one?”

      Cade could clearly imagine Detective Mick Marshall pushing through his paperwork, phone cocked at his ear to block out the noise of the bullpen, his tie askew, his wiry red hair sticking up in spikes from a face set in a permanent scowl.

      “You got something, Parris?”

      “Just a rumor,” Cade said easily. “If something big went down, I could use a link to the insurance company. Got to pay the rent, Mick.”

      “Hell, I don’t know why you don’t buy the building in the first place, then tear the rattrap down, rich boy.”

      “I’m eccentric—that’s what they call rich boys who pal around with people like you. So, what do you know?”

      “Haven’t heard a thing.”

      “Okay. I’ve got a Smith and Wesson .38 special.” Cade rattled off the serial number as he turned the gun in his hand. “Run it for me, will you?”

      “Two bottles of Scotch, Parris.”

      “What are friends for? How’s Doreen?”

      “Sassy as ever. Ever since you brought her over those damn tulips, I haven’t heard the end of it. Like I got time to pluck posies before I go home every night. I ought to make it three bottles of Scotch.”

      “You find out anything about an important gem going missing, Mick, I’ll buy you a case. I’ll be talking to you.”

      Cade hung up the phone and stared malevolently at his computer. Man and machine were simply going to have to come to terms for this next bit of research.

      It took him what he estimated was three times as long as it would the average twelve-year-old to insert the CD-ROM, search, and find what he was after.

      Amnesia.

      Cade drank another cup of coffee and learned more about the human brain than he’d ever wanted to know. For a short, uncomfortable time, he feared Bailey had a tumor. That he might have one, as well. He experienced a deep personal concern for his brain stem, then reconfirmed why he hadn’t gone into medicine as his mother hoped.

      The human body, with all its tricks and ticking time bombs, was just too scary. He’d much rather face a loaded gun than the capriciousness of his own internal organs.

      He finally concluded, with some relief, that it was unlikely Bailey had a tumor. All signs pointed to hysterical amnesia, which could resolve itself within hours of the trauma, or take weeks. Months. Even years.

      Which put them, he thought, solidly back at square one. The handy medical CD that had come with his computer indicated that amnesia was a symptom, rather than a disease, and that treatment involved finding and removing the cause.

      That was where he came in. It seemed to Cade that a detective was every bit as qualified as a doctor to deal with Bailey’s problem.

      Turning back to his computer, he laboriously typed up his notes, questions and conclusions to date. Satisfied, he went back upstairs to find her some clothes.

      She didn’t know if it was a dream or reality—or even if it was her own dream or someone else’s reality. But it was familiar, so oddly familiar….

      The dark room, the hard slant of the beam of light from the desk lamp. The elephant. How strange—the elephant seemed to be grinning at her, its trunk lifted high for luck, its glinting blue eyes gleaming with secret amusement.

      Female laughter—again familiar, and so comforting. Friendly, intimate laughter.

      It’s got to be Paris, Bailey. We’re not going to spend two weeks with you digging in the dirt again. What you need is romance, passion, sex. What you need is Paris.

      A triangle, gold and gleaming. And a room filled with light, bright, blinding light. A man who’s not a man, with a face so kind, so wise, so generous, it thrills the soul. And the golden triangle held in his open hands, the offering of it, the power of it stunning, the impact of the rich blue of the stones nestled in each angle almost palpable. And the stones shining and pulsing like heartbeats and seeming to leap into the air like stars, shooting stars that scatter light.

      The beauty of them sears the eyes.

      And she’s holding them in her hands, and her hands are shaking. Anger, such anger swirling in side her, and fear and panic and fury. The stones shoot out from her hands, first one, then two, winging away like jeweled birds. And the third is clutched to her heart by her open, protective hand.

      Silver flashing, bolts of silver flashing. And the pounding of booming drums that shake the ground. Blood. Blood everywhere, like a hideous river spilling.

      My God, it’s wet, so red and wet and demon-dark.

      Running, stumbling, heart thudding. It’s dark again. The light’s gone, the stars are gone. There’s a corridor, and her heels echo like the thunder that follows lightning. It’s coming after her, hunting her in the dark while the walls close in tighter and tighter.

      She can hear the elephant trumpeting, and the lightning flashes closer. She crawls into the cave and hides like an animal, shivering and whimpering like an animal as the lightning streaks by her….